Rosenberg cast a sidelong glance at the officer beside him. He was young – somewhere in the area of twenty-one, if he recalled correctly. The boy’s blonde hair showed none of the loose, patchy qualities that had infested Rosenberg’s previously well-groomed head after five or six years on the job. His skin still had some actual complexion to it; there hadn’t been enough days under ceilings and nights under the moon in the young man’s life to properly strip the life out of his flesh. And now the job had put this before him.

Harriet H. Fitzgerald had been just five or six years older than him, and she certainly wasn’t getting older. Her corpse lay in arched, arthritic silence across her mattress, a few embers still clinging stubbornly to the edges of its blackened fingers. She was unrecognizable – her hair had vanished from her head, burned to vapour or strewn as ash across the remains of her pillow. What had once been her skin and fat was permanently dyed into her bed sheets as a layer of clear, stinking grease. What of poor Ms. Fitzgerald that had managed to stay on her bones was black as soot, seared into the parchment-like, almost crystalline state of sorely overcooked meat.

“God,” wheezed Junior, clasping his nose between forefinger and thumb “what is that?”

It wasn’t the stink of charred flesh. Ms. Fitzgerald had been so thoroughly cooked that there was little left to smell. Rosenberg answered without bothering to sniff.

“Sulphur.”

“Why the hell would”–

“I dunno.” He cut the younger man short before it started feeling like he was going through motions. “It was the same at the last place. And the one before that. I’m guessing there’s still no trace of ignition fluid?”

Junior shook his head.

“Nope. Nothin’. Looks like the blaze didn’t spread, neither. Can’t imagine how our guy managed not to set the bed on fire.”

Rosenberg could.

“Any signs of struggle this time?”

“Nope.”

“Forced entry?”

“The window was open. Aside from that… nothing.”

Same as the last place, then. Somebody certainly had settled into quite the comfortable little rhythm, hadn’t they?

“I’m guessing there’s another kid, too?”

“…Yeah. Ms. Fitzgerald had a daughter. She’s missing.”

Of course she was.

“Alright.” He sighed heavily, as if to expunge something from deep within himself. “I want the whole place covered from top to bottom. Eventually this guy’s gonna leave something behind, and when he does I want it found. Take a look around for addresses – family friends, relatives, whatever; anyone the kid could’ve run to if she got away. And… try to keep this a little quieter than last time. People are getting scared.”

Rosenberg turned away and stalked out of the apartment, and as the rush of Chicago closed in he reminded himself that he was a good man.

He was a good chief. He was good at his job. He’d been wasted at his old desk, watching his former boss slouch along and grow steadily wider. He was hands-on. He was attentive. Proactive. He’d made some real progress in the six months since his promotion. Things were getting a little – just a little – better under his watch.

So this would be investigated without results. Harriet H. Fitzgerald and her daughter would be forgotten. The case would fade away into the grey depths of Chicago’s memory.

And he’d still be a good man.

Demon: The FallenThe Road to Damnation

Hubert Mannering

Natasha April Smith

Edward Theodore Brenton

These names have achieved local notoriety in the city of Chicago within the last six months. Unrelated other than the circumstances of their deaths, they’ve been the victims of what some have been calling the latest criminal legend of modern America and others have labelled as rampant gang activity. All single parents, all on the mid-to-lower end of the national standard income, and all agonizingly cremated in their own homes, their children have been nowhere to be found, assumed kidnapped by the home-invader(s) responsible for the parents’ grisly ends.

But, despite the shadow of its new boogieman, the sun is rising over Chicago. It’s a new day.

[[I’d appreciate it if EVERYONE could start the day for their characters so that I can throw plot devices at you at my leisure]]

Koopa awoke slowly absently reaching across the large king sized bed for his wife forgetting in his semi-consciousness that she was not there. With slow steps he walked across the room hitting the power button for the TV as he went turning the news on as he grunted. At 24 he hadn't even his his prime yet and he was a rising star in the culinary world. Turning on the shower he grunted it was 9 o clock long after most 9-5ers would even rise. Work for him would start when he got to the restaurant at 10 with his opening crew with service to start at 11. It didn't matter what day of the week it was he always hit full capacity at least once per meal. Grabbing his razor he let the hot water run over his face and neck as he shaved smooth. Stumbling out of the shower forgetting his towel his soaken body shivering and dripping on the carpet of his bedroom as he sat and stared blankly into space hearing the news but not paying attention his mind focused on the circumstances of the 3 murders. Something had to be going on there, something was being covered up. How he knew he couldn't say it was just a gut instinct, in his childlike innocence he didn't want to believe that the news wasn't telling the whole story but he believed that wasn't the whole picture today. With a grumble he finished his morning routine walking to his car and driving to his restaurant. Heading in the backdoor he started his morning process turning on ranges, ovens and stoves before heading to the front of the house to let in his employees already waiting for him.

A sudden vibrating startled her out of an otherwise comfortable slumber. Mia Gallo was one of those people who had to sleep with a blanket, and would wake up feeling to others like a furnace. Rolling onto her other side, Mia grabbed her cell phone and violently ripped it out of the charger. Crushing the cell phone in her hand, fingertips reaching the off button, she succeeded in silencing the incessant wake-up alarm. Slightly bloodshot eyes cracked open to look at the time.

"SHIT!" She launched out of the bed and tripped over her discarded clothing from the previous night. "I'mlateI'mlateI'mlateI'mlate" she chanted as she sprinted to the closet and threw on a pair of black skinny jeans, a dark green tanktop and a black, grey and white striped knitted short-sleeved hoodie and stepped into a pair of flip-flops. Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it for the moment as she grabbed her purse and an apple from a bowl near the door of her small apartment.

Locking the door to her house, she shoved the apple into her mouth, holding it as she found the keys to her car and unlocked the old beast with a click of the button. The twenty-four year old, white Italian-American popped herself into the car and drove at a moderate speed to work, munching on the green apple as she did so. At the light one block away from her job at the museum, she realized that she forgot something. "Papers! AGH!" She was a mess, and she knew it. Sprinting into her house for her large folder with her latest research, she slipped on the return journey and the papers flew everywhere.

While normally she was excellent when it came to bad situations like these, she was running on only three hours of sleep because she had been captivated by the news as of late and the murders. As a result, she had to stay up very late so she could finish her latest research proposal. Now on the way back to work, she sighed in relief. Not only was she a minute late, but she had that really mattered: her work. Her hair was messy and she looked like she just woke up, but her boss was used to this; she looked like a hot mess after writing some of her best works.

Last edited by Akaine on Tue Sep 13, 2011 7:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Gniewomira “Mira” Wiśniewska - Northwestern Memorial Hospital - It's hard being a single parent. It's hard, and no one understands.

"I'm go on my lunch break now." Mira said, to her boss "Got go feed Dra" She gave her clipboard to her boss. She said lunch but her shift had started at 2 am. It was seven now."You have one hour" Her boss said automatically. He wasn't the brightest man in she world and she often wondered how he had gotten to head nurse. "Thank you Sir" Mira ran off her dark ashen hair trailing behind her. It took her fifteen minutes to run home. Dra, I'm home"Starsza siostra!" the boy said from his bed "I missed you"The woman smiled, her grey eyes soft, as she re-heated some broth for her little brother. "You always miss me." She said with a laugh, a liitle sad, a little forced. The boy didn't notice as she brought his lunch in. "Why wouldn't I miss the most beautiful woman in the world?" The boy asked, he'll be quite the charmer when he grows up. If. If the boy grows up.

Mira fed her brother and was out in fifteen minutes. She went to a bench behind the hospital and sat down. Her light purple pants lifted up to reveal white socks as her elbows went to her knees. Her pale face went into her equally pale hands as she started to cry. Why him? She thought Why not any other little boy but him?

You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse

James's hand slammed the alarm clock for the second time. This time, however, he stood up. He had actually built a frame around the alarm clock to prevent it from breaking. After all, he couldn't afford to break it by accident. He opened the fridge, took out some eggs, and scrambled them. He ate them with a side of cold ham. After that, he got dressed, brushed his teeth, and went downstairs. He was now ready to being his day.

James went to the front of his store and flipped the sign over. He then went back to the counter and flipped through a few papers. "Order #1... a sculpture of a bird... feh. Better get to work." He made sure the buzzer still worked before heading in the back. The buzzer did make sound but only in the store to assure the user that it was working. What it actually did was cause a light to start flashing in the back. After all, his earmuffs weren't going to be good for hearing much. "Lessee..." He looked back at the order and found, to his annoyance, there was no specific bird specified. "Well then, I guess I'll just make it bird-like first. I'll get the details later." He grabbed some sheet metal and began welding, his mask, apron, and gloves protecting him.

Final Fantasy IX was the best Final Fantasy game ever and if you think otherwise you are WRONG!

It had been a little bit over an hour since the plane landed and Gerard had arrived at Chicago. The sun was peeking from behind the buildings of the city. Gerard came out of the airport wearing black trousers and a closed up white shirt. He looked like an ordinary guy, but his blonde hair and icy blue eyes gave him a more European look. He was holding a hand bag over his one shoulder and was holding his bible under other arm. He had a peaceful look on his fair face but a rabid glow in his icy eyes. He would find peace here for a while; at least he hoped he would. He had postponed much research because he was running; hopefully he could finish it here.

He found a taxi that took him into the city while the sun rose, ever so slowly. The cab stopped outside a second-class hotel that Gerard had booked from the plane. It wasn’t peak season so there was plenty of vacancy. He walked in. On the reception stood a beautiful young woman in her early twenties; she had long blonde hair caught up in a ponytail, she was wearing a t-shirt that exploited her rich bosom. “Cover yourself with something girl! Have you no shame?” he asked before anything else. The woman looked at him with the most passive look ever, sighed and asked for his name ignoring his previous statement. There were lots of weird people coming in the Railroad Inn. “Gerard Killin, I booked a room eight hours ago” he answered. The woman gave him the key and told him the room number, wished him a nice stay and realising he had no baggage other than his handbag pointed him to the correct direction of the elevator.

The Railroad Inn was not what you would call a luxurious hotel, even if you considered it as a hotel. But it was comfortable enough, and he had had endured with much worse. Gerard took the stairs next to the elevator instead and upon reaching the third floor and entering his room he felt rejuvenated from the small exercise, he had been sitting for way too long. He left his bag on a small drawer wardrobe and bent his knees and kneeled to the floor. His palms came together and his finger intertwined as he started to pray. Or chanting would be more appropriate as he chanted the scriptures from the bible in the ancient archaic language with astute accuracy, as if he was reading them. He sat there and chanted and chanted. There was something melodic about his deep husky voice, something alien and familiar. It was a voice filled with resolve. He had promised himself he would find a way, and when he promised himself something he always succeeded.

Elise smiled softly as she closed the door to the children's wing, nodding to the set of weary parents that sat on one of the benches in the hallway. A look of relief came over the mother, and she degenerated into tears.

Elise's white sneakers squeaked on the shiny linoleum floor as she moved to walk past the pair, holding a set of charts to her chest. She paused, reaching out to slide the tips of her fingers into the woman's hair in a reassuring touch, speaking so softly that both she and her husband probably had to strain to make out what she said.

”Just remember the agreement,” she murmured before slipping away to pad back to the nurse's station, a look of gently pleased peace painted on her face. More often than not these days she wore that kind of look, like everything in the world was just peachy and Xanax-colored.

But despite rumors that she was on heavy anti-depressants, she was good at her job, and more than one of the long-term visitors to the children's ward had had a miraculous recovery since she'd recovered from her boyfriend's betrayal and found God...Maybe teaching the kids to pray really was having an effect...

She settled the charts in their bin without the irreverence that many of the nurses showed the paperwork and skirted around the desk to log her hours. She'd come in late last night and worked a double that was now over. She didn't seem tired, though. Rather, she looked kind of refreshed.

She waved her greetings to the coworkers she passed on her way to the cafeteria. It only made sense to get a bite to eat before leaving for the day.

Nathaniel Hale III was dead to the world. His eyes were closed, his limbs were slack, he was even drooling a little. But his mind... His mind was more active than any other in a five mile radius. He was currently participating in a vision quest, a trick he learned in the Indo-China area. His quest would have been rather successful had not a customer strolled through the front door, setting off a chime. This roused Hale gently, and he stirred behind the desk as the man dropped his keys on the front counter."Could I get my tires rotated? I think I might need new brake shoes too, they're squeaking a bit." You might as well buy new brake shoes, then I'll rotate the tires for free. "You got yourself a goddam deal."Hale smiled and stood from the desk, waltzing towards the door to his workshop. Before entering, he crossed himself. Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kindom Come, Thy Will be Done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Hale then crossed himself again and stepped briskly into the workshop, having finished his morning ritual before he got down to work. For Everyday of Honest Work, a Demon is Cast Once More into Hell. Little did Hale know how much work was to be done...

A loud thump is heard as a pillow violently crashes against the wall. Blankets follow in suit as they slowly float down to the ground like a dough pizza you see being beaten and flung around in pizzerias. The condition of the blankets weren't so different from that of the before mentioned pizza, several worn marks can be seen inside and out. Most of which were recently caused by Kyle's restless sleeping, last night of which was the worst case he had. Finally rolling out of bed Kyle unsteadily gets up on his feet and grogilly moves towards his wardrobe to get dressed. With renewed vigor upon seeing his various suits he quickly goes into the nude as to just as quickly suit up. Walking past the kitchen feeling like a million bucks in his suit, instead opting to eat at work, he continues his way towards the front door until a beam of light catches his eye.

He squints, allowing him to pick up where the light is coming from. Following it he ends up infront of his wife's room, the light coming from a slightly opened shade. Continually staring into the room he stands there motionlessly. A shiver running down his spine as he raises his hand to slowly shut the door and close the light from the room. That damn room. Gripping onto the door knob he slowly shuts it, leaving it only slightly ajared by the smallest crack. Having wasted enough time at his house he runs outside to his car, fiddling with the keys as he turns the engine on and drives off to work.

For the king, For the king, For the sake of Skyrim. For the Nine, for the hope of High Hrothgar's pass, and for all of Sovngarde; Where the souls sing your song. For the king, For our King, who will guard Hrothgar! Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin, wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nust hon zindro zaan, Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!

As Elise passed through the cafeteria doors, a lofty, broad shape whisked past her, slowing almost to a stop and pivoting in her direction. Upon a closer inspection, the shape was Arnold Brant, one of the hospital’s senior physicians. He was a tall, sort of awkwardly-shaped man on the cusp of his forties, who wore his white coat in a way that often reminded his co-workers of something you’d hang your clothes on at the door. He liked to smile.

In fact, he was smiling right now.

“Ms. Danridge!” He said it like it’d make the sun rise. “I hear you’ve been on something of a roll lately. Keep up the good work.”

He winked and rounded the corner, apparently in something of a hurry.

He was in a hurry. He was late, actually, for a rather important conference. But he wasn’t late enough to miss Mira as he made his way out of the hospital. Once again, he slowed from a jaunt to an amble, and then finally stopped, becoming a slash of white stillness against the frenetic backdrop of Chicago. A long, considerate stare settled upon Mira.

She was the Polish girl, wasn’t she? The one with the child…

With apparent caution, as if not to spoil the girl’s personal space, he made his way to the opposite end of her bench.

“Ms. Wiśniewska?” He was probably one of the few people at Northwestern who could pronounce that correctly. “Are you alright?”

Mira looked up her ashen hair falling limply across her face. Hullo, I'm fine. she said, her eyes were red and puffy, no makeup streaking her face. I... I'm sorry. It's not me it's Dragoslav. Her thin shoulders shook and all her feelings came out in a ramble, her head going back into her hands as her body shook. I wanted to come to Ameryka to give brother a chance. Get away from the bad he seen back home. But now he is sick and he's not getting better and I cannot get the good job I had back home because there is no money to fix it. There is nothing I can do and-She suddenly realised who she was talking to. Ah! Mr Brant! She panicked and sat up straight, her hands going to her lap I'm sorry to press my burdens on you she said quickly her grey eyes even wider than usual. Have I made you late for a meeting? she dearly hoped she hadn't bothered him.

You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse

"Bzzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzt! Bzzt bzzt bzzt!" Hale poked his head out from under the car at the sound of his phone buzzing on the front counter and called out quietly to his customer. Could you toss me my phone sir? "You gotcha." Hale caught a blistering pass from the man at the counter, shaking his hand in slight pain. High School pitcher? "You gotcha." Nate simply smiled and turned away, sliding his phone open to see the flashing tape deck icon: 1 new voicemail. Shoot... Missed it. Pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek, he went back to the car as he listened intently to the strange message the man left behind.

“Hello. Is this a Mr. Hale? My name is William – William Craddock. I’m currently curator at the Field Museum in Chicago. It’s right next to the lake – on ‘Lake Shore Drive’, actually. I’m calling because a… colleague of mine in India recommended you to me; said you had a quite amiable interest in certain fields of study. I was wondering if perhaps we could arrange a meeting sometime? Or you could, I suppose, drop by the museum whenever you’re free. I’ll be there most days. Most nights, too, I’d imagine. Anyway… I do hope to see you at some point, and, erm, if I’ve reached the wrong number and this is not Mr. Hale, then I apologize for being a bother to you. Goodbye.”

Hale let his phone drop from his shoulder into his hand before transferring it to his pocket as he slipped out from under the car and lowered it to the ground once more. He tossed the keys back to his client as he punched up the bill for the man. Mind giving me a ride to the Field Museum? Its just down the street and I'll take it out of the bill. "The one on Lake Shore Drive? Sure, hop in." Hale sat a bit perplexed in the passenger's seat as lakeshore Chicago whizzed by him out the window, going over the message in his mind. The man had been very politic: in his choice of words, where he paused in his sentences. He certainly knew more than he had thus entailed. Fascinating. Nate exited the man's car and handed him a twenty when they pulled up in front of the museum. Thanks for the ride. "Thanks for the brake shoes." You know where to find me if you ever need a repair again. Hale thudded the top of the man's car before walking rather slowly up the steps to the entrance of the museum, addressing the woman behind the ticket counter. Hello, my name is Nathaniel Hale, I just got a call from your curator, Mr. Caddock, asking for a meeting?

A few hours passed before James pulled up his mask. The statue was coming together but it didn't really look like a bird unless you squinted and used a very creative idea of what a bird should look like. He sighed. He it didn't seem right. He was supposed to be making something interesting but this wasn't going to be anything out of the ordinary. He shrugged and put away his tools. He went to his room, found a resturant using his computer, and set out.

He drove a suprisingly new-looking car. Some idiot with more money than brains had let it be towed to the junkyard after an accident and never came to get it. James had fixed it up and used it ever since. He stopped at a popular pizza restraunt and looked at the menu. "Hmmm... well, I'll have a medium with onions, mushrooms, sausage, and anchovies." He ignored the stares and waited for his food. The last few weeks had been good for some reason and he wanted to try something new.

Final Fantasy IX was the best Final Fantasy game ever and if you think otherwise you are WRONG!

Carl's attire consisted of a white dress shirt with a black cherry red vest and black and grey vertically stripped pants. With the black thick square glasses, Carl raised an eye brow at the strange order as he wrote it down on a tiny notebook with a small pencil. Onions, Mushrooms, Sausage and Anchovies, what a weirdo, Carl thought. Wouldn't the combination offset the flavor due to the salty tiny fish and spicy ground up pork stuffed in a meat tube. " As you wish, sir." Carl said with a smile as he closed his note book. " Is there anything, else you would like?" Carl questioned as per the job recruitment, how he hated his job. Pizza was once a paradise, now it has become a living hell due to customers and their strange desires and endless complains. Today, was a tough day, as earlier in the day an elderly women in her 60's complained how she got the wrong pizza, demanded a refund, insulted the staff and cook, and claimed that everyone was lazy, when she never ordered a pizza here in the first place. The rage boiled inside, but was contained. " Maybe a cool drink? We serve exotic beer here, just need to see a driver license." He questioned to the customer.

"Fate smiles on the strange. So its a good thing, I'm the strangest of all." - William Livingstone, Cirque de la Nuit

Brant had a smile like a pair of headlights, beaming on and on through Mira’s troubles undimmed.

“Not nearly late enough.” He replied, mixing a small chuckle into that bursting, lopsided smile. As it trailed away, he leaned slightly forward, knotting his fingers and leaning his chin upon his thumbs.

“His condition is deteriorating…?” The sigh intermingled with his words suggested less of a question than a restatement of fact. It was inevitable, really. Children afflicted in the manner of Mira’s young brother rarely showed any signs of improvement. He’d be dead within a year, most likely.

“You know, Ms. Wiśniewska… there are alternatives to caring for him at home. Northwestern is quite well equipped to take care of your bother, and while you might not have the necessary insurance, I do have a certain amount of pull with our Chief of Medicine. You’d be able to put in more hours, and Dragoslav would still be nearby…”

He watched her eyes carefully, as if trying to dredge something from her reaction.

[[The Field Museum]]

The girl behind the counter glanced up at Nathaniel, an atmosphere of fried-out curiosity buzzing about her eyes.

“Still moving his stuff in, and already he’s bringing friends over?” She tittered and pointed further into the museum, towards a set of stairs leading up to the landings that flanked its central hall. “His office is on the second floor. Head up those stairs and turn right. From there you can’t miss it – it’s the door with all the boxes piled up outside it.”

Mia used a little too much force in opening the front door of the museum and strode into the entryway with a sigh of relief: She was here. "Ello" She said in a groggy tone to the girl at the counter, and overheard her directing another person to the curator's office. "I'll show you the way, I'm on my way there anyways", she spoke to the man. She only realized that he was there because the desk-girl had to be directing someone. Blinking slightly blearily, she turned her head to the man as she began taking the first steps leading upstairs. "You coming?" She tilted her head slightly and she began waking up as she started to actually look at the man she would be leading to the curator's office.

Gerard Ernest Killin, Ph.D~ Finding the source of the source, Headed to the church ~

In the middle of the city, in a black cab with leather seats sat former priest Gerard Killin. His eyes passively watched the people of Chicago walk busily outside of the car window. He had next to him his bible and a silver rosary. Its beads shone like large stars on the black leather, the early sun reflecting off them. The cross was almost as large as Gerard’s hand with a clear diamond embedded in the middle, engraved around it was the shape of the Virgin Mary, the diamond right on her belly signifying the holy child she was bearing. Thin engraved lines were carved outward of the diamond representing the holy light. For a moment Gerard reached out and caught both the bible and the rosary and held them tight in his large palms. At that moment they passed outside the Holy Name Cathedral, but that was not his destination. His destination was a smaller chapel but with ground holy and untarnished. He was going to the Sacred Heart Church to meet Father William. Father William was an acquaintance of Brother Gregory and when the killings started he asked for help from the Vatican but was denied. Brother Gregory brought Gerard and Father Joseph in contact a couple of weeks earlier hoping that Gerard could help.

The cab stopped right outside the Sacred Heart Church. Its tall spire towered above him as he paid the cabdriver. The sun was reflected off the painted windows. The odd, chilling silence that surrounded the church brought a feeling of awe and satisfaction in his soul. Gerard walked forward and opened the large oak door to the church which was naturally open to everyone. Even though he was not a priest recognised by the Vatican any more he was still a religious person. The cross above the door signified the protection God had bestowed at that place. The church was religiously quiet as it was supposed to be. Only a couple of people were seating on the benches praying silently. Gerard respectfully walked towards the closest person to him, it was a woman in her late thirties. "I am sorry to disturb you while you are praying but I am looking for Father Joseph. Could you tell me where he is?" he asked, the woman looked surprised for a moment and then pointed towards the altar. Gerard muttered an appreciative thank you and walked towards the altar with the same religious respect.

With a patient demeanour he stopped outside the side of the altar and called for the priest. “Father Joseph, I would like to talk to you. My name is Gerard, I am a friend of Father Gregory” he said in a quiet voice that was barely heard into the altar. It was easy to understand what he implied about his true purpose here and yet he hoped to make his stay here as uneventful as possible. In reality he had accepted this request for two reasons. First, he needed to slowly find subjects to help him with his research; he had also heard that the religious department of the local university had one of the best collections of ancient texts and scriptures. Second, it was a far enough place that he would have a couple of weeks of peace before anything happened, before he was found.

Last edited by Elend-X on Wed Sep 14, 2011 8:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.

James rolled his neck as he thought. "Beer... alcohol... hmm..." Then he shook his head "No, I'll need my wits about me. Anyway, I'm my own driver. Might not be the best idea to be arrested in the current... ah... climate." He thought a little more "Tell ya what, though... I'd be interested in any rumors you've heard about the murders. I know you probably know very little but there'd be a big tip in it for you if you knew anything. I'm not going to investigate it or anything but I'm kind of into supernatural stuff and these things... well... I've heard the murders aren't exactly normal." He grinned. "I know it sounds silly, trust me, there are a lot of strange things going on. My name is James Joseph Johnson and, before you say anything, yes, it is a stupid name."

Final Fantasy IX was the best Final Fantasy game ever and if you think otherwise you are WRONG!

Nathaniel thanked the girl at the register and proceeded inside, immediately taking the stairs to his right. He pitched is head up at the sound of a voice in front of him. No need to guide me ma'am. I was just given the directions. Giving Mia a friendly smile, he walked quietly behind her. His mind still swirled with questions as his feet fell one in front of the other, taking him up the stairwell to the second story of the museum. What on Earth could this man want? Colleague in India? Certain fields of study? There were a million things that could go wrong with this "interview" and Hale knew it. His gait slowed, his eyes dilated, he took a deep breath. Paranoia was a terrible thing, and the inflammation of the disorder in him was sudden. Why should he visit this man, who he didn't know, couldn't trust? For all he knew this man could be dangerous, someone interested in snuffing out people with Hale's abilities. The onset of his suspicions was fleeting however, and he actually chuckled as his foot found the top of the stairwell. Taking the briefest glance down the hall, it was easy to locate Dr. Craddock's office. Hale slowly weaved his way through the maze of boxes and poked his head into the doorway. Doctor Craddock, sir?

~Owner Interrupting Time~ Koopa was walking by the tables stopping and talking to regular customers and asking questions and getting feedback from some of the newest customers. He felt that having an opportunity for the customer to talk to the chef/owner made for more regular customers and it helped him experience the joy and smiles he brought people. He overheard James talking about the murders and he stopped slowly turning around and making his way straight to his table. "Carl take a break...you did good today" He said patting him on the shoulder "I have this one" He gave the waiter a wink trying to convey that Carl would still get the tip. Quickly snatching the ticket book from his hand he checked the order "Ah excellent choice sir, a man with tastes like my own, we don't get too many who like the anchovies" He smiled a nice big kind smile "I am Koopa head chef and owner here, and I will take care of this order personally"

When one was their own boss, one could usually take their own time to at least get to work. Even as the Asian lady practically owned the shop, she always felt compelled to be there on time, especially when she knew her assistant would be there early sharp at the clock. Not that her assistant did not mind to open the shop without her and she could just come by later, but it was not one of her principles her parents had taught her.

Glancing at the clock placed at the bed table, she quickened her pace as she tidied her long sleeved shirt and glancing herself through the long mirror in front of her. The lady, named Yue, wasn't really the type of person to dress overly for work, but she maintained a neat yet casual type of look consisting of simple jeans, long sleeved pullover shirt and a pair of low heeled dark brown leather shoes. Satisfied with her appearance, she then left the comfy home of hers and to her vehicle, but of course not forgetting to lock the house first. One can't be too careful nowadays, especially with the current news spreading around.

She recalled briefly about the news she had watched earlier in the morning; the very strange murders, and how they were linked in a way, especially on how the victims died in the first place. Cruel was one word she could think of, firstly. 'Strange' was definitely another. But she did not dwell much on the thoughts as she simply drove to her destination. Reaching there and parking her car somewhere near her shop, Yue welcomed the sight of her assistant waving to her in the short distance and she returned the wave with her own.

It was another day at work as they opened the pharmacy shop and then started with the routine of checking with the new stocks which finally shipped in, then filling up the stocks in the shop as well as perhaps cleaning up a bit. Such was the starting of the day in Yue's pharmacy shop.

James gave the new man a tight smile. The only reason he wasn't rude at the moment was that he didn't want to make trouble for the waiter. Then he paused and cocked his head. Something was weird about this guy. "Hello, Koopa, my name is James. However, I suspect you already heard about that. Now, from your actions, I'm sure you have something to tell me. Is it public knowledge or do you want to talk in private?"

Final Fantasy IX was the best Final Fantasy game ever and if you think otherwise you are WRONG!

Very early that morning Durman had sat in one of the hole-in-the-wall diners the majority of the city had forgotten the existence of, staring at the 14 inch Panasonic television set on the nearby front desk, and while he walked he was even now contemplating what fresh news it had brought. Normally he took no interest in they city's crimes, but this one seemed... different. He had intently watched all the news of the latest exploits by the "Brimstone Burner", as this news channel took such morbid glee in naming the killer. The nickname had developed upon unsubstantiated rumors that every crime scene stank of sulphur, although whether or not the fires had been chemical had yet to be disclosed to the public. Durman had compiled a mental list of relevant facts that he'd absorbed over the span of the investigation that would even rival the police's own records on the case. However they were viewed, though, there was always one piece out of place with every rational theory put forward so far.There were rumors of gangs and robberies, but none of the residents attacked had been rich by even the most optimistic estimates. Also, gangsters and robbers had no use for abducting small children.Glancing at Desri, Durman blinked, realizing for the first time how much the victims had in common with his own lifestyle. Granted, he wasn't a single parent - he almost smiled at how preposterous the idea was - but he fit most of the other criteria.If the killer was a deranged pedophile, or abducted the children for another reason, this still didn't account for the method of starting the fires. Apparently in every case, the fires had not only failed to spread beyond the bed, but indeed had been contained to the person's body entirely. This type of controlled combustion wasn't possible, barring a painstaking laboratory setup which couldn't be achieved in someone's home while they slept. Durman had considered the possibility of the victim being moved, burned at a separate location, and returned. However, the bed was not completely untouched; the evidence suggested the victim had not moved before or during the incineration."We're here."Snapping out of his pondering, Durman noticed the sign across the street. Northwestern Memorial Hospital. So, this was the place. The charitable reputation of the hospital made it an ideal choice for addressing the immediate concern of the day: Desri's disturbing, unnaturally throaty cough. Of course, she had tried not to show any discomfort this past week, but finally he had promised her that her phobia of hospitals would be ignored just this once. Desri wasn't stupid, even by Durman's harsh standards; she knew this was a fib, and that if she fell ill in the future he'd have no compunction about returning her to the frightening building for further treatment. Truly, though, if the cough hadn't gotten worse and shown signs of developing into something life-threatening, Durman wouldn't have forced her into this after all. They couldn't afford to pay expensive medical bills, and in all reality he might face jail time in the future for his inability to pay the hospital for this treatment.Of course, he wasn't about to tell Desri that.Either way, Durman had one other reason for taking her to this place in particular; it was the hospital where his own grievous injuries had been treated twenty years ago. He wasn't sure if he would tell her this, now or later or maybe not at all. As fate would have it (and with him it seemed to "have it" often), he had overheard another encouraging piece of news about this hospital at the diner, from a couple whose relief was palpable. Apparently the hospital now had a woman in the children's ward who was especially adept at healing grievous illnesses in the young...

Elise favored Dr. Brant with a smile, as though his greeting of her really had made the sun rise. He might be a little odd looking, but the man was entirely pleasant in a way that most people didn't care to be. His positivity bolstered the small bit of hope for humanity that Elise held in her heart, so each brief meeting with him was a blessing in its own right.

He was gone before she could converse with him, so the smile and nod would have to do for a greeting. She continued on her way, selecting her nutritious and not completely vile meal, paid, and chose a table that was tucked into a corner, so that she could look over the current denizens of the hospital's grazing ground as she enjoyed her meal.

"Ma'am." she mouthed silently to herself once the guy started walking behind her. She scrunched her face and rubbed at her eyes as she quickened her pace on the way to the director's office. She didn't look at who was in the office yet, and rummaged through her bag to take out the file folder filled with her research. "I have your-" She paused in her step. There were boxes, unpacked and packed in the office, and the curator wasn't there. "Uhm, would you be able to tell me where the curator is?" She lifted the research notes in her hand and lowered them, as if they explained why she was here. She looked back at the guy who entered shortly after her and asked after Dr. Craddock.

She rolled the left-sided lip piercing between both lips in nervousness; she was starting to wake up and it wasn't like the director to be missing when he was expecting his research. 'Hmm, I have a feeling that something's majorly off...things are going to get complicated super fast',The manic rush to work didn't really help with that thought, either.